When the Wheels of Life are Turning Slow, I Lay Me Down to Sleep
by lucacat4
Summary: "Older men declare war. But it is youth that must fight and die."-Herbert Hoover. The days are getting shorter, the nights longer, the air colder, and for Dean, the sands of time are running out. **MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH


He leaves the envelope unopened for two and a half weeks. It becomes ragged and rugged, worn and torn and just a little bit broken, toughens up at the outside but tears on the inside. Just like him.

It's tossed around in his duffle bag, but nothing can scramble the neat black words on a page that is too white, blindingly white, and he wants nothing more than to turn his head away and wipe away the dampness that the paper summons to his eyes. It's tossed and tipped and travels a hundred miles or more, but somehow the words remain pristine, crystal clear. They're so immediate, so plain that he almost can't recognize them. Almost, but not quite.

"I'm dying, Sam." He tosses the bag down onto yet another rumpled bed, the envelope still inside. He considered burning it, but that brings up tender memories. Considered tearing it apart, but somehow it's unbreakable, so he feels that he's got to be unbreakable, too. And he was, too. Until now.

"I know, we're out of beers. Go get some more if you really want one, I'm staying here. I think there's a Wendy's down the road if you want some dinner, though god only knows how you could manage to be hungry when we ate lunch, like, two hours ago."

"Sam." _Sam, I don't know how to tell you, I don't know what to say or what to do, I can't toss this aside any more._

"Dean?" He glances up, then, face illuminated by the glow of his laptop. "Dean. I'm here."

Just two words. _I'm here._ Somehow those two words summarize an eternity for them, their entire lives rolled up into two words, two syllables, even. _I'm here._ Because it's true-whatever happened, they were not alone, not really. One is always there for the other, always. _I have your back_. That's what they used to say, still say. Can't say it any more, though. Dean will only be able to have Sam's back for a little while longer, and Sam-Sam will probably have Dean's for the rest of his life, even when Dean's place is empty and his life is still. _I have your back._ Dean's always had Sam's back. He's had Sam's back literally, guiding him to a seat or the Impala after a rough hunt, cradling him at Cold Oak, clutching him when he lived yet again. _I'm here_. How can so much be communicated in so little? That's Dean's life in a nutshell, ironically-so much in so little. He's too young, too young to die, he hasn't seen enough of the world, yet he's seen so very, very much, sometimes more than he'd ever like to see. So much pain, so much sorrow, so much grief, and so much love is so little time. Much too little-too little for Sam, too little for Dean, too little for the whole ignorant, unsuspecting world which lies prey to so much badness.

The doctor tells him how long he has left. _Months_. He can count them on one hand. One, two, three, four, and maybe five. Five, like five days in the week. June, July, August, September, October. He'll be gone before the first snowfall. Ironic that his last days will be Halloween; just his luck, too. He never liked Halloween. Hated it.

Sam. S-A-M, three letters. Dean. D-E-A-N, four letters. It's like a pattern. Sam is three, three letters, three years, too young to be left alone in the world. Dean is four, a little bit older, still too young, too young to have this much responsibility, too young to be so old and yet too young to die. Death. D-E-A-T-H, five letters. Five letters, five months. They're consecutive: Sam, Dean, death. It's almost an equation. Three carries on to four, which carries on to five.

What comes after five? He can't remember. Can't remember, doesn't want to remember. Maybe his mind is finally failing him, maybe this is it. Would be just his luck, after all that, being sentenced to death and then killed early. Nothing comes after five. Not for him, anyway. Oblivion, darkness, hell, it doesn't matter-if Sam's not there, it's nothing to Dean. Dean plus Sam is life, Dean minus Sam is death. But Sam minus Dean can't be death, surely it doesn't work that way, everyone knows subtraction isn't the same if you flip it. Dean's going to die, he's going to die and lose Sam. Sam is going to lose Dean, but it doesn't work backwards, can't work backwards, Sam can't die.

But Sam is strong. He's such a nerd; always was good at math, that boy. He can count, can still count, so he knows that for _him_, there's something after five. Five isn't the end of the road for Sam. No, there's six, and seven, and eight, and nine, and ten...all the way to infinity.

Before now, life seemed like infinity. Sometimes it was hellish and sometimes he rejoiced, but the end was never quite so visible as it is now. Sure, he danced around death all the time, but somehow it always evaded him, and even hell couldn't keep him away from Sammy. Life is finite now. Painfully so. Figuratively and literally, of course, although he never was much into the figurative side of things.

His muscles ache, and simple tasks aren't as easy as they once were. Nothing is as easy as it once was, and the promise of the end and the hope of a light at the end of the tunnel is no comfort. It's hard to gauge Sam's feelings right now. Is there any cold comfort to be found for him? Dean hopes so, but it seems like even the iciest, most obscure solace is hard to come by, right now.

June slips by with none of the usual laziness of hot summer days. He and Sam have put aside hunting for a while (permanently, for Dean) and are simply driving the days away, stopping at times to crack open a couple of beers and enjoy the tranquility of these last days. The breeze is still cool, hasn't quite lost its refreshing hint of springtime, and Dean is glad because springtime is all about life and rebirth, and that's what he wants right now. Yes, the breeze is cool and the Impala is warm, as though alive herself, and Sam is here and it's ok. It's ok.

Sometimes they don't even bother finding a motel, just park the car in a field beside the highway and sleep inside it like they've done so many times before. The Impala is a home to them, has been so for as long as Dean can remember, and he takes comfort in reliving old memories. Sam's asleep beside him, and Dean smiles with a sudden remembrance of a silly prank, pulls out his phone and gazes at a similar picture taken such a long time before. Sam's got a white plastic spoon in his mouth and Dean can place the moment so clearly, can almost feeling the reverberations of his music as he jolted Sam awake and laughed at his face.

July, and the Impala suddenly feels stifling, so he eases his way out of the car and does something he hasn't done in years. Steps up on the seat and the heaves his way up onto the roof, lying on his back and gazing up at blurry stars in a surprisingly clear sky. Heaves his way up, yes, because he feels like an old man, his muscles weakened and lose. Sam hovers behind him, Sam has his back once more but his hand isn't touching Dean, not yet, it hasn't come to that quite yet. But almost. Almost.

August, and Sam and Dean spend four hours driving to a particular rest-stop that Dean remembers from years before, remembers it for the pie, of course. They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes-his life isn't flashing before his eyes, not quite, but it is true that a few old memories have suddenly become more poignant, sharper in his mind, so defined that in a weak moment, his eyes prick with tears. He almost orders a slice of cherry pie, almost, but the deep red color is too much like blood, his stomach is too weak for the thought and he hastily orders blueberry. Blueberry is good, a good clean flavor and a good color. Blue. Sam's first (and last) tricycle was blue, he thinks, then catches himself and pushes the memory aside. Stop with the nostalgia, dude, you're acting like a girl.

September, and now the air is cooled, growing crisp and chilly, or maybe it's just him. He pulls his jacket closer around his body, shivers as much at the thought as the feeling, and Sam pulls the zipper together when his fingers fumble and he drops it. It's like that French thing, deja-vu or whatever it's called, seems weird that Sam is the one kneeling in front of him, holding his jacket as if begging forgiveness. He should be the one taking care of his little brother, Dean should be zipping up little Sammy's jacket, not the other way round, and Dean should certainly be the one begging forgiveness. Forgiveness for all the mistakes he's made, for all the times he turned aside and doubted or fought or hurt the brother whom he loves most in the world. Must forgiveness always be forgotten, must apologies always come too late?

October, and the trees are turning orange, red, gold, brown, burgundy, leaves the color of wine. He never liked wine, beer was always his choice, and he and Sam sip beer together now, although his pace is much slower than in years, even months ago, and the bottle weighs heavy in his fingers. Too heavy. The trees are past their prime, they're aging, wilting, dropping their leaves as if they are too tired to bear the burden any more. Dean is tiring too, day by day he's losing a little more of his color, his life-sap is leaving him too but unlike the trees, his hibernation will not release him to see another spring. His time is coming now, coming quickly. The trees dwarf him-they're old, some of them centuries old, and his tiny, weak frame is like that of a baby compared to the ancient, rugged ancestor of the oak in which he and Sam are sitting. He's a baby, now cradled in the arm-like branches of an ancient elder whose time is still to come, maybe never will come.

He and Sam pretend they're in a treehouse, the treehouse they never had in the childhood they never had, for they were never normal kids and they never had a normal life. Strange that he would be felled in such a natural manner, betrayed by his body in the end-he'd always expected to die a hunter's death, a brave death, not the trembling death of a fragile being. When he tips a little, Sam's arms reach around him and he leans into the touch. Leans into it, because this may be the last time he ever feels it, and he wants to savor it, savor the chick-flick moment he always tried to avoid.

He can feel Sam's heart beating violently, chest hitching as he tries to fend off his tears, and Dean wants to tell Sam that's it's ok, that he's ok, that everything is ok. He's ready to go now, hasn't had his fill but is resigned to his fate and ready to face what comes next. There's nothing left for Sam to do but stay with him in these last moments. Dean relaxes a little-he knows better than anyone that he is not leaving a clean slate behind, for his slate is stained with blood and tears and grief and anger that will never wash out. But Sam's slate will be clean, from now on, if Dean has anything to say about it, for Dean wants Sam to give up the hunt and wipe away the blood while there's still time, have an ordinary, apple-pie life and remember his brother as he once was.

In some weird, twisted way, this is the best death he could have asked for. He has time to say goodbye to Sam, time to set things right, even just a little bit. A long conversation with Bobby leaves him tired all the way down to the bone, but happy. Bobby'll look after Sam, he knows that without a doubt. The question is, will Sam look after himself? What'll he do when Dean's six feet under, out of reach? This is a natural death, nothing supernatural about it, and he and Sam both know that this is the end. The end. They're not going to say _au revoir_ or _farewell_, not play it up to be something it isn't. He and Sam have seen enough death in their lives, are too familiar with it to play games.

The sun is setting and the sky is ablaze with color, and Dean sees it with new eyes; he rarely noticed the sunset before, too preoccupied with other matters to revel in its glory, but now everything else is set aside, and in the comfort of his brother's presence he can lean back and enjoy the view.

He feels clean, baptized in the fresh air and wrapped in companionship. He turns his head toward Sam, whose profile is illuminated, hair glinting golden-orange, eyes squinting against the sun.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean?" Sam's voice is rough, his breath just hitching in his throat, but his face is wonderfully smooth, and Dean is glad to see that Sam's face isn't marred by a frown.

"You keep fighting the good fight, you hear me? I'm fine, _you're_ fine, the whole damn world is just fine. I want you to find a real pretty girl, take her for a spin in my baby and sweep her off her feet. You marry that girl, and you settle down and have a good life, Sammy. A good life."

"Dean?"

"Huh?"

"I will."

"Atta boy, Sammy. Atta boy. And…Sam?"

"Yeah."

"I want you to know that I love you, I'm proud of you, I'm proud of _us._"

A tear slips down Sam's cheek, and a muscle ticks in his temple as his jaw clenches and unclenches. Dean lifts a hand that trembles only ever so slightly, and wipes away the lone tear. And he says it, like he's said it so many, many times before.

"It's ok, Sammy, it's ok," he murmurs. "It's ok, I'm ok, you're ok, it's ok, it's ok, it's ok."

Sam turns to look at him, and though his cheeks are wet he's still smiling.

"Yes, Dean. It's ok."

So much is understood in those two words. _It's ok_. A short lifetime, chock full of emotion, is laid at rest by that exchange. _It's ok_.

"I love you, Dean. Always have, always will."

This time it's Dean's turn to feel a cool trail tracing down his face, then another, then another. Silent and swift the tears come, but he mirrors Sam's smile.

So he does lean back, leans back and folds his arms across his chest, drinks in the warm rays, the heat and the sounds of birds and the smell of Sam sitting beside him. Sam's hand is on Dean's thigh, grounding him, holding him steady, keeping his body weighted and heavy on the earth, but it doesn't matter because Dean's soul is light, lighter perhaps than it has ever been.

And when the end comes,


End file.
